


Prophecy

by jeeps



Category: Weiss Kreuz
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-27
Updated: 2003-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-03 06:37:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeeps/pseuds/jeeps





	Prophecy

Schuldig edges towards the foot of the bed; no, he creeps away, silent on hands and knees, a backward prowl. The bed is, of course, pressed into a corner, so he can't just roll away and get the fuck out of here. So his foot snags on a tangle of sheet leftover from some fit of lust, and he winces, tries to shake it off but ends up having to reach back and push the sheet away. He's still for a moment, head bowed because he doesn't need to look. Just slips into his mind and back out, like the flicker of a snake's tongue. Schuldig exhales sharply, then, the tangled synapses bittersweet where he presses them against his palette. But he's still asleep, and Schuldig has to go.

One foot hits the floor on the next shuffle, the other coming to join it, and he whirls and bends for his pants, his shirt, his sock— fuck the socks. The bulge of a half-crumpled pack of cigarettes in the pocket of the pants is reassuring against his thigh when he pulls them on, does the zipper and ignores the top button in favor of getting his arms and head through the holes of the t-shirt as quickly as possible. His hair is still in his fist where he was pulling it free from the collar when the voice rasps behind him. "Oh, Jesus." Schuldig stills. He hadn't seen that coming.

He hadn't seen any of it coming.

He doesn't want to think about that, but he doesn't need to for all the _what the fuck_s projecting from across the room like he's a fucking antennae. Well — Schuldig tilts his head contemplatively — okay. He lets his hair settle on his back, across his shoulders— pricking his eyes and catching at the corners of his mouth. His eyes skitter across the room, over the man sitting with a shell-shocked expression on his face, like he wasn't the one who tore off— there it is, on the nightstand. He remembers now, long fingers slipping underneath to push it off his forehead and painful tugs through his hair, a few strands separating, one for desire, one for regret, one for...

He stares at the bandanna for a moment because he can't fathom looking directly into the other man's eyes. He knows they're hazel, but the night will have pigmented them and it hasn't even begun to witness the price he'll pay for this stupidity. He decides he can do without the bandanna.

"Wait..." Schuldig is at the door, shoes in hand, smirk already in place as he turns to look at him. It's not just a mask; he really is amused. Ever the playboy, priding himself on respecting the process if not the partner. Never respect _them_, 'cause what kind of two-cent whore would climb into bed with him? They wouldn't if they knew who he was, what he did in the darkest shadows of the night, the self-flagellating goes, and as much of an aphrodisiac as that is for Schuldig, the man on the bed — lean form hunched over so blond strands of hair hide his eyes but not his thoughts — he's forgotten that Schuldig knows all of it.

"What for?" he replies, and doesn't bother for an answer that won't come.

*

Schuldig just stands there, indecision warring through the constant din of thoughts battling for supremacy in the background. Not one of them comes from the direction of the sliver of bright light underneath the closed door, and maybe that's what makes him want to open it except that he's never really needed an excuse to be reckless.

He lets the door swing with a bit of dramatic flair (in for a penny...), thunking against the wall of the study, and he lounges against the frame, hips jutting an artful inch forward. While it's a rare occasion for Brad to be caught by surprise, Schuldig likes to think he appreciates the effort. What's the fun of a superpower if you can't show it off?

"I'm late," Schuldig prompts to the tense curve of back and shoulder muscles, the tight, erratic grip of the pen upon the legal pad. Brad is sitting in a wide, cushioned armchair on the wrong side of his desk, facing the door. It's pressed up against the bookcase there, and it's all very picturesque, a scholarly framing of the pale, bent neck, furrowed brow, glasses that have slid past the bridge of his nose and given him a false air of vulnerability. His legs are crossed at the knees, and Schuldig wants to insert a hand between his thighs and trace fingers up the lines of pinstripes. And of course Brad would be wearing fucking pinstripes in the morning hours of the night, always immaculate in that way that makes Schuldig feel like he's coming apart at the seams.

At Schuldig's voice, Brad stops writing, holds the pen poised over the paper before laying it down upon the pad, covering it with his writing hand so it won't roll away. But he doesn't look up, and though his lips are soft, his jaw remains tight. "By whose clock?"

Ah. So he does know. (...in for a pound.) Schuldig saunters over to Brad, smiling over his "I had hoped there was some method to your madness." He ignores that enticing dip between his thighs and instead bats the pad out of his hand and onto the ground, pen flying onto the desk with a clatter, and he drops his knees onto the chair on either side of Brad's hips, crinkling or dislodging a few stray papers. Brad doesn't complain about the mess, and that's when Schuldig realizes that he is very angry.

Touching the pale skin under cold eyes, Schuldig can almost imagine his fingers curving grotesquely, his own warmth sapped into Brad's cheek and freezing the skin of his fingertips there so that if he wants to pull away they will tear and come away bloody. "How do you know there isn't?" he says, voice absent to the place of his musings.

"Because he's still alive," Brad hisses. "You're so _fucking_ weak."

Schuldig hesitates at this, casting his eyes towards Brad's shoulder, down the slope of arm resting against the curve of the chair. "He tasted..." _He tasted like come._ Warm and bitter and obscene sliding down his throat. And that had been before the fucking. Schuldig decides not to share this thought, though he can feel Brad's anger slicking across his mind like oil. He shudders and leans forward, touches his forehead to Brad's, but that was all that had been allowed to slip past the impenetrability of his mind. "...you never let me—" he finds himself saying before jerking away.

"And if I did?" Brad is trying to curtail his amusement, biting one corner of his lower lip, but his eyes remain sadistically bright. Schuldig wants him. "Would it make any difference?"

Not in a way that would matter to Brad, Schuldig supposes, but he's not about to say that aloud. So he leans forward and takes the dented corner of lip, teeth clacking against Brad's as he pulls it away from him. Brad's mouth is pliable underneath his in a way that speaks less of acquiescence than of a desire to see how far Schuldig will dare take this. Schuldig thinks Brad really hasn't been paying attention this whole time. He grinds down against the other man's thigh, slipping up to his groin, and Brad starts, tongue twitching forward to meet Schuldig's. Angry, yes, but he's still a man, and Schuldig is good at this.

He never said he _wasn't_ a two-cent whore.

*

In the end, he happens upon the tall, blond Weiss member on a Tokyo street crowded with nighttime holiday shoppers. Not as many as there used to be at home, but it's enough that it becomes dangerous for him, the thoughts crashing through his head like a tidal wave and not a single one distinguishable from another. He's not attacked, though. It looks like the other man is just out for a casual smoke, careless cigarette dangling from tapered fingers and practiced cat-eating-the-canary smile smoothing his lips. But his gaze is blank, and when he spots Schuldig and the smile slips from his face, the darkness underneath his eyes seems to stand out in even starker relief.

As he's pressing Yohji against the bricks of a nearby alley wall, Schuldig marvels that a man for whom fucking should be rote by now can suffer so much angst over his partners. But he has his own reasons, and Schuldig tastes them on his skin, teeth closing over the vulnerable parts.

He'll get what's coming to him. After that second time he can see it in Brad's eyes, even if he can't yet see it in Yohji's.

Brad doesn't tell him what he knows, and Schuldig won't ask him.


End file.
